


Work, Love, and Office Supplies

by The_Opened_Door



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Crack, M/M, Not Beta Read, Office Supplies, Written By A Canadian, Written By Someone Who's Not Seen Skyfall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 16:54:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Opened_Door/pseuds/The_Opened_Door
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Bond’s illustrious career in Her Majesty’s Secret Service, he has been to blame for no less than fifty seven international incidents. Only three of these incidents are due to Bond underestimating something or someone. Now, he has a niggling in the back of his mind that he will soon be adding a fourth underestimation to his tally, and quite frankly, it does not bother him at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Beginning...

Prologue

In Bond’s illustrious career in Her Majesty’s Secret Service, he has been to blame for no less than fifty seven international incidents. Only three of these incidents are due to Bond underestimating something or someone. Now, he has a niggling in the back of his mind that he will soon be adding a fourth underestimation to his tally, and quite frankly, it does not bother him at all.

When Bond first met Q, at the National Gallery in front of Turner’s masterpiece, he was sure M had been firing him, hiring some mail carrier to pass on the message. This, looking back now, was the point at which Bond should have realized he, like the Téméraire, was outgunned. 

Unlike the ship however, Bond had not adapted quite quick enough, and he’d have to be tugged back to London, sent down river for scraps. And this would simply not do. No, though Bond had made a mistake, and seen Q and thought him nothing more than a child playing spy, he could redeem the situation.

Probably.

Explosives are always an option.


	2. Electrolysis Is Us

Chapter One

This brought Bond to his current situation, standing in Q Division, with no mission, no work-related purpose, trying to look like he was supposed to be there. Or at least, look less like a field agent in a swarm of researchers and developers. Out of all the things he’d done, this was so far the most trying of his skills at camouflage and blending in.

Beyond this, Bond wasn't even sure what he was doing here, what his goal was. The premise he had gone into this was ‘Q is good at his job. I am good at his job. We will be even better at our jobs if we work together’, and frankly it was appalling that he’d chosen to come down here when he could be in his flat, or in a pub instead. Perhaps his mind was going, just as M had been saying for years.

“Ah, hello. I see our favourite blunt instrument has a new mission. What impossible deeds have you for me now? Am I to create something bigger on the inside than the outside?” Oh, Q had noticed his looming. Damn.

Wait. What? Bond turned, following Q’s movement through the Division’s bullpen.

“Nothing impossible…just a bit unlikely, if you will”, two could most definitely play the Doctor Who game. Bond would be damned if he let Q take his well-earned (yet completely unknown to MI6) title of Whovian King. 

As Bond followed Q into his office, tucked into the corner, he realized he actually had no reason in any way to be here. Shit. Maybe Q wouldn’t noti – 

“So, does anything in particular drive your visit today, or is the world just too boring without something to shoot or blow up?” Q had realized Bond had no idea what he was doing here. And now he was smirking, this is getting wildly out of hand. 

“Pens.” Shit. Pens?

“Pens?” Well, at least Q seemed suitably confused.

“Yes. Well. Do you, here ever have that problem of people walking away with your pen? And then you’re left with that one pen that doesn't work, even remotely?”

PENS?! 

“I…no. No, I have not had that happen. Recently, at least. It used to, but I put an end to it by getting the Borrow My Pen pens.” Oh thank God, at least Bond hadn't talked about explosive pens or a flamethrower pen or poison dart pen. That might have just driven this situation out of normalcy. 

“Borrow My Pen? What are those? I swear, if 009 takes my pen again, I’ll need to rig it up to a small bomb.” Oh there goes normalcy, waving as it flies by. 

“They’re, well, they’re normal, everyday pens. Except where one may find a typical company logo, there are fake companies, things like ‘Stuffed With Love Taxidermy: No Pet Too Small, Give Us a Call’. Pens that no one in their right mind would admit to owning. It’s silly, but I have not had a single pen go missing since I bought a package of them.” 

Q stopped talking and started fidgeting. Why, Bond could not fathom. This was a reasonable response to the problem of PENS WHY DID HE CHOSE PENS and now they could at least discuss that, MI6’s secret shame of pen-thievery.

“Pen-thievery is a rampant problem here. It’s a wonder our American cousins haven’t violently overthrown M and taken over, with this level of deception running amok in the office.”

Q looked at Bond far too intently for a moment, and began laughing like it was the best joke he’d heard all week.

“Here, take the Stuffed With Love Taxidermy pen. Clearly, we cannot have 009 spontaneously exploding in headquarters, it would be hell to clean.”

“Thank you, I’ll return it when I’m able to find my own. I’ll keep you updated on the progress of this plan.”

“I look forward to hearing it. Bond, it’s been a pleasure, but alas, I heard someone out there say something about a shoe phone, and I've got to put a stop to it before we end up with Oxfords sending a signal to Tacoma or some place.” Q opened his office door, stepping back out into the fray.

“I hope you enjoy that,” Bond called over his shoulder as he made his way through the interns. 

He was in. In what, Bond didn't know. Trouble, most likely.


	3. Do Not Eat the Stress Cupcake

Chapter Two

The next time Bond saw Q, it was outside of M’s office. Bond had been heading there to give in his latest report, on a small issue in Moldova which was cleared remarkably quickly, with little property damage, no divorces, and only two deaths. A success, by all definitions. 

“Ms Moneypenny, I don’t think you understand! THE INTERNS ARE NOT CAPABLE. In the past week alone, I have had three of them come to me with chemical burns, seven of them do not know the dialing code for Swansea, and I NOW HAVE THIRTEEN PAIRS OF RADIO-TRANSMITTER CLOGS. No one wears clogs! Why would they think we need clogs?!”

Bond felt it should be surprising, that Moneypenny seemed rather amused by the whole ordeal, but he could not find a single amount of shock at all. However, Q’s outburst had drawn the attention of the entire administrative floor. Q would be receiving clog-shaped knick-knacks for at least a year that was assured. 

Moneypenny shook her head,

“I’m sorry Q, but there’s simply nothing to do about this right now. The internship is necessary, with the recent financial cutbacks, and the demands Q Division still has for funding. May I suggest you find a way to deal with the stress? Oh, 007!”

“Are you suggesting 007 as a stress reliever?! THAT IS NOT HOW THIS WORKS!” now, Q was entirely prepared to fight his way through to M, no matter if she was in the office or not.

“No, Q. I think she meant I was here. Which I am. Just giving in my report for the Moldova Incident. Clogs, yes? Well, if the heat ever gets cut to Q Division, you’ll have kindling. Unless they've put incendiaries in the clogs as well. Have they?” That would be a clog worth buying.

Q’s face rapidly changed from pure, vengeful anger, to soul-deep fear.

“No.” He grabbed Bond’s arm.

“Please tell me that’s impossible. Tell me no one would do such a thing to a wooden shoe. Oh God, they've done it. FUCK!” Q ran to the elevator bank. Bond prayed that MI6 had at least kept up the fire extinguisher certificates.

“I feel obligated to go ensure Q Division is still standing. Moneypenny, would you please pass the report on to M? Thank you.”

Well, despite the impending mental break Q was fast approaching, Bond now had the perfect excuse to pass on the trinket he’d picked up. Such opportunities do not always provide themselves this easily, he may as well take advantage.

As he arrived on the Q Division, Bond was greeted with seven silent students. Seven Silent Students, Stripping Shoes. Bond couldn't help but laugh as he walked through their ranks.

Knocking on the door, Bond almost expected Q to claim he wasn't in. 

“Come in. If you have to.” He was there after all.

“So. Clogs, yes? That’s got to be a new record for object causing mental stress in the Secret Service.”. Q was in his shirtsleeves, head on his cardigan. Bond walked into the office, leaned back on the desk beside the other man.

“Is there a scoreboard somewhere? Do we keep track? If I am suffering through this, I better be able to make money off it.” At least Q still had his humour, that had to count for something in the ordeal.

“I’m not sure. Probably. Tanner seems like the type to do that, I’ll look into it, see what I find. But, in the meantime, it looks like you could use a cupcake.” Bond withdrew the present from his pocket, setting it on the desk beside Q’s head.

“What are you even on about?” Q raised his head, seeing the Stress Cupcake.

“It’s a Stress Cupcake. To match your unstealable pens. This one doesn't as much deter thievery, it is more of a 'it would be very easy to find if it were stolen' typed-object. But perhaps it will help with your intern issue.” A conversation is a conversation; Bond would take talking about office supplies with Q if that was the offering.

“I am both confounded by this, and shocked that I don’t own at least four of these. How did you even find this?” Q was squeezing the Stress Cupcake with a ferocity only seen in badgers and Christmas Eve shoppers.

“That is my secret, and I will take it to the grave. You will simply have to rely on me to provide you with thief-proof office goods from now on. Really, it’s the only option.” 

Bond was enjoying this just as much as Q appeared to be, a moment’s silence among the daily insanity of fieldwork, reports, errant interns, and a bureaucracy developed through World and Cold wars. 

“Yes, I think you’re right. Thank you Mr Bond. I think this will be useful. It’s just the thing I need, I’m glad you thought of me.”

Bond smiled, and felt something in his mind shift ever so slightly. He began to wonder if there was something else going on, something he couldn't quite see.


	4. Perfection in Hot Pans

Chapter Three

James Bond knew one thing about himself; he was adaptable to almost any situation, excepting a lack of coffee in the office. Any other situation, Bond could change his mind, his actions, and move on. So when on a Tuesday morning, Bond found himself leaving a Puzzle Calendar (a colourful and whimsical way to keep track of the month) on Q’s desk, he was perfectly comfortable with the realization that he had a bit of a crush on Q. This may be an understatement. It has clearly developed beyond a crush and is now into ‘I will bring you dead things in courtship’ level of affection. It’s probably best he was bringing Q tacky desk items, rather than corpses.

In any case, when Bond came across this realization, there were not a whole lot of options he had. At this point, Bond could either accept that he felt this way, or run away and defect to Russia. And frankly, acceptance was a far better plan, which far more beneficial consequences compared to defection.

Now that Bond had a goal (get Q to offer him dead things/office supplies in affection in return), he could develop a plan to reach said goal. Well. Bond says plan. It’s more of a play-it-by-ear concept. Either way, on this Thursday night, a week and a half after the Realization, Bond found himself in an abandoned Q’s office, in an abandoned Q Division, with a box of Bacon Poetry Magnets. This could not go wrong.

Seven hours later, the first trickles of life were streaming into the Q Division office, among them Q himself. As Bond watched from the filing rooms, Q walked into his office, set down his coffee, started up his computer, looked at the Bacon Poetry, put his jacket away, logged into his computer, looked at the Bacon Poetry, handed assignments out to the interns, went back into his office, sat down, and finally read the Bacon Poetry. 

The message had been received. Knowing that, Bond returned to his office to wait. Conceptually, waiting should not be difficult. He’d done it countless times on countless missions, sitting or standing still for hours at a time. Yet, this seemed incomprehensibly more difficult than any of those situations.

“Agent 007, it has been a while since we’ve had ourselves a chat.” Of course, M took this crucial moment to come to his office for a talk.

“Yes, you’re right, perhaps on Monday, we could meet. I’m afraid I’m quite busy right –“

“Busy, you say? Busy with your little ‘Woo Q’ project? Please tell me you've almost reached the end of that, and that he’s agreed. If it goes on a week longer, Tanner will win the pool, and frankly that’s unacceptable. Unacceptable for me, and for England. Remember that, James.” With that, M calmly stood, walked out his door, and back to her life of running the most complex and dangerous organization in the UK.

Bond now felt quite complete to ask the world as a whole,

“What?”

“What what? If you don’t know why I am here, we may have a rather large problem to sort out.” Of course Q came in now, timing in Bond’s life always seemed to flow on an almost movie-level of coincidence. 

“I think my Bacon Poetry to you just won M a bet against Tanner. Or a pool against everyone. I am really not sure.” And he really was not sure what had just happened.

“Oh good, you do know why I am he – wait. What?” Q had finally caught up, now they could deal with the issue at hand.

“Exactly! That is exactly what I said! Wait. You’re here about the Bacon Poetry. Did you….like the Bacon Poetry?” Now, finally this is at an end. Bond will know if he must defect to Russia.

“James, you said ‘I’m crispy for you, and I want I make you sizzle. Will you have lunch with me?’ I don’t think anyone could like that. But, I appreciate the intention. And if you NEVER touch the Bacon Magnets again, I will have lunch with you. Romantically. Yes.” 

“Who doesn't like puns? Puns are amazing.” Bond felt he was focusing on the wrong part of Q’s comments, but couldn't quite get passed M’s dating pool.

“Yes! You said yes! Despite the Bacon Poetry, you said yes.” Now, Bond felt he was getting grips on the conversation. It was a long time coming.

“Yes, Mr Bond. I said yes. On the condition you leave the Bacon Poetry alone. Also, many people dislike puns, as they are the lowest form of humour. Lower than penis jokes.” If Q wanted the Bacon Poetry left alone, Bond could do that. Simple.

Q came around to Bond’s side of the desk, leaning on it just by Bond’s side. Bond stood up, leaned towards Q, and kissed him softly.

“Okay, lunch it is. No bacon.”


	5. It Won't Give You Diseases If You Rub It All Over Your Body

Epilogue

When M wins a large amount of money (over three thousand, two hundred and seventeen pounds) in an office dating pool, she becomes infinitely more invested in any relationship which may allow for her to win more money. Thus, any ‘indiscretion’ that may occur in the office due to Q and Bond’s budding relationship is swiftly ignored, though the Brain-in-a-Jar candle may never recover.

Ten months post-Skyfall, Bond’s relationship with Q was infinitely more satisfying than their first meeting. There was still a moratorium on the Bacon Poetry, and during missions the two still often failed to see eye-to-eye. Despite this, it offered more benefits than not for them both. Their jobs became easier; the companionship of someone in the same line of work softened more destructive edges, granted more leeway when things went wrong.

Every week, Q would still go into his office and see a new knickknack. Be it a Rubber Bandit Rubber Band Shooting Gun, a TARDIS trashcan, or a Rude Self-Inking stamp. And each mission, Bond would find some new explosive, or on tough weeks, an incendiary clog.

It wasn’t perfect. Nothing based on office supplies and espionage could be. But it worked, as long as Bond never tried to touch the Bacon Poetry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have not yet seen Skyfall. This entire work is based off what I've seen on Tumblr, and what my imagination drags out from that. Each of the office items mentioned in this work is a real item, and totally available for purchase. I own the Borrow My Pen pens, and no one steals my pens anymore! I love puns, I think they are the greatest thing since sliced bread, but I am aware that people dislike them. If you liked it, I am so glad! If you didn't like it, I don't know why you stuck it out 'til the author's notes, but thanks for doing it! Have a wonderful day, each and every one of you.


End file.
